Beyond Infinity and Beyond
by morachao
Summary: The tale of Sarah's true love story, and the many challenges faced along the way. Sequel to Beyond Infinity! :) WoodyXBo fans WILL enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Woody's POV

_The opaque aroma of coffee still lingered in the air from the pot that was abandoned at breakfast. My entire department has been cleared out: all but me, anyway. Apparently the armed robbery, which we received a call about at seven this morning, wasn't your typical "disgruntled, trigger-happy house-husband with nothing to lose." It took all my officers and dragged a couple surrounding fleets with them. Someone had to stay behind and watch the quarters, and of course that someone was the head sheriff: that's me._

_"Are you kidding me?" I muttered to myself. It's twelve O'clock. It is twelve O'clock and I don't get off for another five hours. As the thought stresses my mind, as well as my heartbeat, I start to think. My wife will be there when I get home tonight. Oh, thoughts like these are what make my day bearable sometimes. She'll be cooking my dinner, have cozy, unblemished clothes, still warm from the dryer ready for me to wear. We'll have a conversation over our meal, flirting over our forks and seductively snacking on desserts. Unless, of course, Sarah's home for dinner tonight. As much as we all love her mother's palatable meals, Sarah's gone more and more these days. With the age of eighteen just months away...it feels like I'm starting to lose her for good. Twelve-ten: I guess thinking isn't the most uplifting way to pass time, but it does work. Getting sick of the coffee-scent-ghost haunting the halls, I stood up and moved to the break room/kitchen. I work with a bunch of lazy pigs, and they seem to love leaving napkins, empty cups, and breakfast condiments scattered around the floor. Of course, they'd blame this on the urgent alert we received this morning, but it's obvious to me they were simply too lazy._

_"Buzz," I sighed, rolling my eyes. I picked up the leftover jelly container from my deputy's jellied English muffin this morning. Slobs- nothing but slobs- have to learn their way around a mop every now and then._

_"Woody?" a signal from my walkie-talkie goes off. "Woody, are you still at the station?" Finally: a call from Buzz!_

_"Ten-four, ready for a news update," I responded with a smooth-tongue. The facade of sounding preoccupied was ultimately for solely me._

_"We got the guy, and our perp had three men in on it with him," he informed. "Listen, sheriff, we've got to keep an eye on this town, because they've been congregating for a long time, and we'd never seen so much of a vestige to give us a clue."_

_"Well, I see the problem Buzz, but you have to remember this town's population grows by the day. We've got high school's to drug-search, hospitals to security check, domestic abuse cases habitually-"_

_"Woody, you're speaking to the deputy, not some newbie," Buzz reminded. "Also, did you know that we have disposable officers? We could always send one of them undercover while one of our other officers handle everything else."_

_"Disposable?" I asked. "Buzz, I am surprised at you! We don't have a single "disposable" officer! Every single-"_

_"Ok, ok, not "disposable," but not terribly missed," corrected Buzz._

_"We'll talk about it when you get back," I sighed. "Even though...you might have a decent idea there partner," I admitted._

_"I'll be brining the criminals back sedated...it was a really vicious crime scene." From the tensed voice, I could hear that he didn't want to go into detail over our communication device._

_"Ten-four, see you then Buzz." Returning to my laid-back position, I regretted the moments I was dreading earlier. Now that my serenity is about to be disrupted by a flurry of criminals and officers roaring through the currently calm building._

_"Hello?" a voice, not so familiar voice called out. I snooped a glimpse from a corridor adjacent to my office. Standing near the opened front door was a semi-athletic rugged young man. He didn't seem aggressive, but I did feel a sense of caution radiating from his neglected personal hygiene skills. I kept towards my office to barricade it until my teammates returned, until another voice captured my ear._

_"Beckett," sighed the feminine vocalist. "Please, can we just go home? He's obviously not here."_

_"Sarah, I'm not going down because you're too freaked out to tell your dad about me, ok?"_

_"I'm just trying to make sure you know what you're getting into...my Godparents work here too, you know."_

_"I'm not scared doll face: you are. I mean, come on, we came here for a reason, didn't we?"_

_"Yes," snapped Sarah. "You dragged me here because you're worried about getting in trouble." If I wasn't intrigued before: I was now. Why would this young man be getting in trouble, and what could coming to the sheriff department change? I realized as I pondered this, I was still suspiciously hiding in my office. I felt like a bit of a mole hiding in the small quarters, but I couldn't venture out into the heat of their battle._

_"I wouldn't if-" his annoyed and tense look became more relaxed as he looked at her weakened expression for a moment. "If I didn't love you, with all my heart." What?_

_"Well that's why we're here baby...Let's not fight about it." What?_

_"I'm not trying to fight Sare-Bear, I just want to meet the guy!"_

_"Hands where I can see them," I demanded, gun drawn and entering the room._

_"Great first impression," gasped my bewildered little girl. Standing side by side, I could mistake Sarah for this man's daughter- that is, if she wasn't __**mine**__._

_"I'm guessing this must be him," sighed the perpetrator. "Sir, can we please not have our first meeting with armed forces?"_

_"Seriously daddy!" growled Sarah, now conscious of the situation._

_"Really, man," grunted Beckett once more. "You don't even know my name!"_

_"Name: Beckett. Offence: Something to do with "love," my underage daughter, AND coming to me for something? Not sounding very good for you buddy boy. I'm guessing you're around twenty five, probably a drug dealer of some sort, and by the looks of your leather: you both came here on your pimp-mobile motorcycle."_

_"Daddy!" scolded Sarah once more. "He's eighteen- legally allowed to date a SEVENTEEN year old- has a real job, has never done anything wrong to you or me, and has no reason to be in hot pursuit of a gun-attack!" The silence in the air could cut a knife._

_"It's empty," I sighed putting the gun on the desk beside me. Sighing with relief and arrogant aggravation, Beckett let his arms down._

_"Now, can we have a proper introduction, please?" asked my daughter. I stared at the boy, and he looked back at me._

_"Did you come at work just so I couldn't make a scene?"_

_"Your little gun draw wasn't a scene!?"_

_"That question was for my daughter: sit down and shut up leather boy." I ordered. Sarah's face grew pinker by the second, and she stomped her feet towards me._

_"Why don't you sit down and stop judging someone you don't even know?"_

_"Sarah Pride," I started to notice my stern frightening voice booming automatically and she began to get skeptical. "You never talk to me like that, do you understand me?" I demanded. Her eyes lost their glare, and she took a seat beside the stranger._

_"Can we start by saying that we're not in trouble?" asked Beckett. "We wanted to come to you to let you know we're going to prom, and Sarah was sick of hiding that she had a boyfriend. She's not pregnant, we're not interested in birth control, and we are NOT trying to get married, so all those accusations should probably leave your mind now, right?" asked the boy. He was all business, trying to seem respectful: at least I think that's what this sorry attempt was._

_"Listen to me now, ok kid?" I began. "In the past, what, five minutes: you have come barging into a sheriff office in crisis, made googley eyes at my little girl, AND disrespected me." Beckett fell back into a slump in his seat. "That's what I thought, now, if you're not in trouble: why are you here?"_

_"I wanted you to meet me..." Beckett explained. "Before you found out we were dating on your own. I'm an honest guy sheriff, I am!" He demanded. Sighing, I rested my head in the palm of my hand._

_"Sarah, you're free to go. Beckett, stay parked."_

That was how it happened, clear as day in my mind. That's how I met the guy I'd hate and hold a grudge for the rest of my life to. The guy I'd hold my daughter's hand for one day and wipe her tears away for. The guy I'd have to give a quick glare to as I passed my crying daughter's hand to his. The same guy she just had to find, and just HAD to love...my baby's husband. After her heart since day one, and I knew he was the only one that could come so close to deserving it. This is the story of their love: and how much I wanted to be wrong about him.

Sarah's POV

"He pulled a gun on him!? Oy, if my papi met the man I was dating I think he'd just go straight for the phone. I'd find him next week in a body bag with a thank-you note to my dad from the bounty hunter."

"I'm finding it harder and harder to tell you things these days Olive," I grunted annoyed. "Besides, you switch boys so much your daddy doesn't even have TIME to meet one."

"Hey!" snapped Olive. "If they were really worth my time I couldn't have fun with them, you know? It's like comparing eating in to eating out: SO much better when it's not the norm."

"You know Olive, sometimes I think you don't see men as people," I giggled.

"Well, when they start seeing me as more than 100% pure ground Latina meat, maybe I will." I couldn't help but laugh as Olive made a face in the mirror. We always prep for dance class together, and she could bush her hair a million times and still not be ready to place it in a tight bun that would look the same if she left it as is. "AY!" cried out my best friend as she flew from her seat. "PAPI!" Rushing into the battle zone came Mr. Brownstone: richest man in the city.

"What happened, baby girl?" he inquired with a worried frown.

"I just caught my nail on my brush and it's stuck!" she squealed, flailing around like a headless animal.

"Hold still baby doll, if you move I can't help!" he directed, trying to calm her without avail.

"Oh, for goodness sakes you two!" I grunted, ripping her nail away from her Latin curls. "You're a dancer Olive! You're not even allowed to have tips!"

"Ay, please," Sarah replied out of breath. "Mr. Rapp just says those things to make the other girls not FEEL so awful that they can't pull them off."

"Well, I sure can, can't I?" I giggled, flashing her the fake nail I tugged off by accident.

"OH MY-" before finishing her exclamation, Olive decided she was in pain now and just screamed. To be honest, losing a fake nail hurts, but Olive's a lot tougher when daddy's not around.

"Honey bun, sit down, daddy'll get some ice, ok?"

"Gracias papi, at least someone cares about my well being in my life!" she snarled. I laughed at her tough act and hugged her.

"Don't worry Olive: we can make it through this! We can get through it together!" I satired.

"Ay, please, I don't need your pity, just leave me to die!" she giggled back. Her father returned with a band-aid and a few choice words.

"Olive, baby, you gotta stop going to that cheap nail salon. I give you a hundred bucks to get things done! Where does the rest of that money go?" Condoms and tequila, more than likely.

"Papi, I like to give business to that side of town, ok? They love me there! They treat me like family, and they need the money much more than any high-class white lady place."

"Olive," scolded Mr. Brownstone. "That woman that does your nails probably doesn't even clean her utensils, and you got these done yesterday! They aren't getting it done, and I don't want you getting some sort of infection, alright?"

"Are you saying that because she's Hispanic, or because her English isn't very good?"

"Olive, do NOT start that racism guilt with me ok?" he defended. "I went to Harvard University twenty years ago. Do you really think there were a bunch of African American business men walking around back then at Harvard? Everyone that saw me around thought I was there as some token black guy." Oh, yeah, this might be a good time to mention: Olive is adopted. Her mother is a beautiful, demure, posh, and immaculate Caucasian woman. She actually grew up on the streets of Paris, until she was adopted by a man that died when she turned eighteen. Without going into too much detail: she FIRMLY believed in adoption, and she wanted to adopt someone in poverty. Surely enough, walking to work one day, she stumbled across an adorable little Latina baby girl. She was wide-eyed, pure, and an enchanting beauty at only three days old. The only thing that would have made her even more enrapturing would be if she hadn't been found in the dumpster.

However, her mother had inherited half a million dollars by the time she was eighteen, and she was the epitome of frugal by that time. This woman, now twenty one and through culinary school, was soon to be worth 2.5 million in the next year. She dressed like she'd come off the early morning Coco Chanel runway, grabbed a latte and pushed off to work without skipping a beat. This woman was a reverie to every man in her path, and she made sure to keep herself up. So, the very last thing you would expect this woman to do: she did. Instead of a run-of-the-mill rich woman with the world handed to her since birth: calling the cops, fainting, screaming and running in circles, or even running in the other direction- she leapt in. That's right, she emerged from the dumpster with fetor radiating from her brand new outfit- she always says she remembers it was a Louis Vuitton because she had JUST bought it the day before- and took that baby straight to the hospital. Because no one was around to claim her, authorities assigned infant Olive to a foster home as soon as possible, but this wonder woman refused. She took Olive home, signed the papers, salvaged her outfit, showered about twenty times, and raised that little girl. Only about two years later, she met her true love: Mr. Grayson Brownstone.

Here they are in happily ever after, with their blood-related son Maxwell, daughter Olive, and a love to last eternally. Olive's mother- Maple- is a five star chef in her own restaurant, and she's constantly out catering, managing, cooking, and in her spare time: feeding homeless families. Now I know what you're thinking: no one is that perfect. You're 100% right, no one can be perfect, not even someone as foolproof as Maple. I've seen her get nasty and rude a time or twenty, but she lived on the harsh streets of Paris until she was twelve, so it's obviously in her nature. I've also seen her lick the spoon then put it back in the dish: about a million times. I guess you could say I find Olive's family as my second, and it's too hard for me to find much to say.

Mr. Brownstone, on the other hand, was a very different story. He was born with a silver- scratch that- a GOLDEN spoon in his mouth. His father was a lawyer, his mother was an heiress of some sort- he never says what she got: but it was worth more than I'll ever see. When you grow up the way he did, you'd never expect to see such a sweet concluding person. By the time I turned eighteen in that house: I would have been a regular Paris Hilton. However, Grayson had a harsh backlash from the time he was thirteen to the time he was sixteen. We won't go into his past, but there were a lot of drugs changing hands in the nooks and crannies of that manor of his. Needless to say, it didn't affect his grades, or his father's plans for him to go to Harvard. He's admitted that he thought of sabotaging his chances more times than most people think about college, but he could never bring himself to do it. Now, if you like to tell the future I bet you'd say "Oh, he got over it, went to Harvard, learned his dad wanted the best for him, and now he's rich." You should not take a job as a clairvoyant anytime soon. He actually began Harvard and started a drug ring on the inside. He was so underhanded and sneaky that he involved three teachers and a dorm advisor. For three years people took the fall for his mistakes, and then he turned himself in. He says it was to spite his father, but I think it was for the actual reaction: disownment.

His father disowned him, he lost his scholarship and finished business school in community college five years after going to jail on a plea deal. Grayson is a very bitter man towards everyone but his family and close friends. He's a coldhearted manipulative business man, and I think all he really wants to do is make more money than his father. I firmly believe if he hadn't fallen in love with Maple and Olive, he'd never have made it in the world of business. It took them to make him realize how lucky he was.

"Olive?" Maple entered the room with a frown and handed the phone to me. "Darling, there's been an accident. You need to get going: now," she warned. I listened to the voice on the other end. I heard a distant sobbing and the sound of confusion.

"Hello?" I pleaded.

"Sarah!" began my crying sister on the other line. Almost instantly, tears pricked my eyes. I knew that if my baby sister was crying, something terrible happened.

"Wendy, calm down, please, tell me what happened." I waited for her to collect her emotions and inform me what was really going on.

"U-Uncle Buzz...he's been shot."


	2. Chapter 2

Wendy's POV

"How's he doing, doctor?" asked my mother. Wrapped in my mom's embrace was my sobbing and hysterical Aunt Jessie. The doctor's expression couldn't mask a hint of melancholy and regret.

"Ma'am...we really have tried, and we want you to have plenty of time to process this. Mr. Lightyear experienced a detrimental wound to the spinal cord..." It hurt just to take a breath into my lungs. It hurt even worse to let it go. "Unfortunately, now his toes are not responding, and he's barely conscious. We're almost positive his legs aren't functioning, and we're 99.9% sure whatever has been done is immutable. I'm so sorry Mrs. Lightyear, but we believe your husband is a paraplegic," he finished. I heard my heartbeat, and I felt its ever-so-seldom patter. I knew I was alive, I had to be. When a human has a pulse, they are counted as alive. My Uncle Buzz was alive, not able to walk, but alive. Can you call us both alive even though the quality of the life is significantly different? I felt my heart again: still alive. I looked down at my legs: still standing alone. My strong Uncle, whom I've seen lift three times what I weigh for sport, was unable to walk. I think he'd have preferred death. I think if this had been my father, I may have wanted the same thing.

"What's going on?" asked my father running onto the scene. I sprung into his arms, remembering I was crying when I heard my hysterical voice. I felt like I was listening to an emergency call, not like I was truly speaking.

"He's not moving! He can't walk, or run, or move his toes," I sniffled. My father's comforting grip made my tensed body slowly relax a bit more. I know my father can fix any problem in this world, and the buzz of anxiety was the first monster he conquered. He didn't speak at first, and when I looked up at him I saw in his eyes something I couldn't stomach: tears. I looked around and they covered the faces of all my loved ones. My mom held Aunt Jessie tightly, and I could no longer feel the ease of my mental safety blanket. My dad continued to hold me, and then fear crept back more harsh. If my father couldn't fix this, what was going to happen?

Olive's POV

The enveloping stench of hairspray gagged me upon entering the dressing room. Sarah was supposed to bring the costumes, but she was still with her Uncle Buzz. All the other girls were going to be furious to say the least, but I feel so badly for Sarah and I know it's not her fault.

"Ohhh boy, looks like rice n' beans finally made it," giggled little-miss-plastic nose. Strawberry Aspen sat across from her synthetic clone Gretchen Quinn staring at me. Their hair was pulled back in picture perfect golden buns, their eyes shimmering and splashing with their deep-blue shine, their diet cokes- ensuring their itty bitty bods- sat side by side with their blinding red lipstick radiating from the straw. They were the perfect poster children for unattainable beauty.

"Yeah, looks like I came just in time for feeding day. Is this the first thing you've ingested this month? Don't you think the 30th is a little too early?"

"You're not funny," Strawberry retaliated. "We fuel our bodies with actual nutrients, unlike someone we know," she scorned pointing her neon pink manicure at my taco bell bag. I just had to be craving a Doritos locos. "I know you're Mexican, ok? I get it: you can stop reminding us with everything you do."

"Sorry, I didn't realize white girls couldn't go to Taco Bell, I'll put in a complaint at our next fiesta." Strutting by, I knocked her diet coke over into the trash.

"Girls!" Mr. Rapp called, possibly preventing WWIII. "Class starts in thirty seconds, please find your spots and stretch!" Cramming out the door, we all began to push and shove one another. I'm pretty much positive Maisy forgot to wear deodorant as she tries to push past me; however, I know for a fact she had a veggie club for lunch: heavy on the onions. Her bouncing red locks tickled my face as she unknowingly smacked me with her ponytail trying her best to squeeze through the door in time with Ottilie. I stuck my hand out and latched on to any arm I could grab. Upon pulling with all my might, I managed to send Maisy hurtling through the door with the built up momentum, and threw both Ottilie and myself onto the floor.

"Sorry..." I quietly spoke. Receiving a collective glare of disapproval, I returned to my Taco Bell bag. If I was going to put up with all these temperamental dancers today I was doing it on a full stomach. I couldn't be any later than Sarah, so I'll just say I was waiting for her and hope I live to see the light of day.

Sarah's POV

I stared in silence, watching the succulent icy creamed sugar swirl into my sister's cup. It was half cheesecake, half salted caramel, topped off with ripe bananas, and bits of scrumptious looking brownies. The poor kid deserves a lot more than self-serve froyo, but I figured any distraction would be good.

"Aren't you getting any?" my sister questioned. Her bunny eyes willed me towards the cups and my hands were soon holding a half-cup serving of plain splenda strawberry. Low cal, no sugar, still yummy. I paid for our yogurts and we sat down outside. The day was sunny, a light breeze, and a beautiful sky sitting directly above us. How could a day with such somber circumstances be so riveting? I tucked my sister's hair behind her ear, only to have her cover her face with her hat.

"Is your yogurt good?" I inquired.

"It'd be better if you could take me for ice cream like a normal sister, or at least put something worthwhile on your yogurt. You didn't even get a topping Sarah!" she sneered. It was dead silent after her tirade, and then the tears began to emerge in her eyes.

"This isn't about frozen milk..." I suggested aloud. "We're both worried about Uncle Buzz, aren't we?"

"Wendy..." I began. "Please, listen to me." I gingerly let my hand lie on her shoulder. "I know the way you've always seen Uncle Buzz, because it's the same way I've grown up seeing him," I sighed and looked down, then back at her. "Sugar bee, life throws us a lot of stuff we gotta juggle, and it gets to hard sometimes. The thing is, as long as we're on stage we're supposed to keep juggling." Her eyes scoured through mine, hoping that I'd continue talking. "He's still the same person-...well to us. He's not going to feel the same to himself, but it's our job to make sure he likes the new man he becomes. He's legless, not lifeless." Wendy didn't bring her spoon up to her mouth, and her chin must have gained fifty pounds, because looking at me was impossible for her at this moment.

"I just..I want him to get better," she practically whispered. I walked to other side of the table to hug her and threw her untouched yogurt in the trash.

"Come on, I'll buy you some real ice cream," I smiled weakly.

"Sarah, ice cream isn't going to solve anything! There's nothing doctors can do about paralyzation, and we're out wasting our time eating and trying to have fun. What about Aunt Jessie? She's not in denial: she KNOWS she's miserable and sugar won't heal her heart."

"Putting yourself in her boots won't heal yours or hers honey bee. It's a part of the healing experience. You have to start out accepting it, and realizing there's nothing YOU can do. Then you have to let yourself feel. Feel sad for our family, feel angry at the guy that went trigger happy, and feel happy that we still get to live and see our Uncle every day. He wasn't taken Wendy. He's still here."

"He's still here to go back!" she outcries. "So's dad! They're both going to go back into the force and end up getting worse than paralyzed, or worse than shot!" she predicted. Her mind was a pool of anxiety, and it began dripping from her eyes. I tried my best to console her in some way: a hug, a fragile smile, even a gentle squeeze of the hand. She didn't bite. Moving away from me, she crossed her arms in protection of herself. I wish I could know what was happening in her mind, because it had to be similar to what crept inside mine. "Take me back to the hospital. I was never hungry anyway, and you've gotta watch your stupid "instrument." She always hated my dietary restrictions from dance. It made her feel like I barricaded myself from the rest of reality.

"If that's what you really want..." I began to fumble for my keys, only to notice Wendy's eyes burning on the Ben and Jerry's right next door. Whoever put a Tutti Fruti next to a Ben and Jerry's had little to no sense in their mind whatsoever. "Just let me grab a power smoothie at B and J's, then we'll head out." Her feet followed my path closely as we made our way to the shoppee. My sister can't fool me, because I get the same look in my eyes when I'm craving carbs.

"You'll take me back to the hospital right after, right?" she asked.

"Of course," I assured. "Then we can be miserable and all lean on each other's shoulders, alright?" I gleamed. Her serious look was more than predictable, but I could tell she was glad I wasn't acting the same. I would put on clown makeup and overalls if it made my sister smile, or even eased her pain an ounce.

"Welcome to Ben and Jerry's! Would you like to try our new Vermonster? Twenty scoops of ice cream, brownies, cookies, hot fudge, banana and any toppings you'd like for an additional charge." I could feel the fat pop out of my thighs just at the sound. I looked to Wendy who was giggling, not noticing I could see her.

"I'll take one to go, but I'd like a raspberry cream smoothie for myself," I clarified. "In the Vermonster, just put in your most chocolaty flavors and top it with a lot of whip cream. Make sure the lid's on tight too because it's got to make it to the army." I grabbed my smoothie once it was blended and stood in silence next to my sister. It took both of us just to get the bucket of ice cream to the car without dumping it. I buckled it in the backseat and drove back to the hospital. "See?" I began, unbuckling. "Now we're back to misery and we brought paradise with us," I bantered. Rolling her eyes, Wendy stormed from the car back to her sanctuary of a cold and solitary hospital chair. My dad came towards me, and his hat was off: perhaps the most unanticipated sight of the day.

"How is she?" he asked. He was very jittery and didn't really look much like himself at all. "Did you two talk through it all?"

"Yeah, dad," I scoffed. "We solved every problem and fear in her head regarding her freshly crippled Uncle. She's fixed," I mocked. His brow crease looked more intimidating without his hat draped over it.

"Sarah, I don't need your sarcasm, alright?" he growled. "Buzz is hurt, and your bad attitude is the LAST thing I need right now."

"Well, excuse me," I smiled. "I didn't mean to ruin your day with my attitude by taking my sister to waste my money while she looked for security she SHOULD have found in a parent while I should have been in dance."

"You were being a sister!"

"I was being a mom!" I demanded. "Something I have to do all the time because it looks like both of her parents are too busy feeling sorry for themselves."

"Watch it, young lady," he warned. His stern voice came out as he stepped closer and pointed at me. "If you want to go to dance, then go." Shoving the ice cream trough into his chest, I turned.

"Only two hours late," I responded through gritted teeth.

Olive's POV

"And you can all blame Miss Pride for my mood!" barked Mr. Rapp. He'd just finished his thirty minute tirade about the reason we were being sent home early. We have the worst responsibility issues and we're trusting the wrong person with our costumes. He easily forgets if Sarah didn't work her a** off at that stupid dance wear store: we wouldn't get 40 percent off costumes. Not that I need it, but some of our other girls have parents with two jobs just to keep them dancing.

You've got the rich girls, whom I suppose I fall into the category, and also includes Strawberry, Gretchen, and Mariah. Then our middle class: Sarah, Ethel and a girl that USED to be on the team but just graduated: Paisley Pepper. Last, and unfortunately least, we have the lower class members: Maisy Owen. The poor cheese stands alone on this del. Sarah convinced me to pay for Maisy to compete when she saw how proficient she was in acrobatics. I'm a sucker for a duet partner, and let's face it: no one does contortion quite like me. The deal was: I pay for her costumes if she competes with me and we've never lost. Sarah and I did duets in our younger days, but now she's a lyrical dancer and a tapper while I throw my legs and back out of their sockets.

"Stress relief is in desperate need," Sarah texted a few hours ago. I knew I wouldn't be seeing her in practice today; even if she risked death by not showing up this close to competition. Her solo was perfection and the group has been nailed down since the first day. There was nothing to miss, but Mr. Rapp never saw things that way. Pulling into my driveway, I saw my brother in the front yard.

"Hey bud," I smiled. I opened the door and patted the passenger seat. "Feel like a trip to the one and only Knott's Berry Farm?" I questioned in my best announcer voice. "I'll buy you volcano fries and let you go wild on some coasters!"

"I want tofu nuggets and to go on the planes!" cheered my brother, Michael. The kid lives in Sacramento, I have to remind myself. We have a mother with the most popular restaurant in the county and all she serves is vegan dishes. Dad and I are the only ones in the family with stomachs for real food.

"This is a six hour drive Mikey, and if we go you have to have FUN like a real kid, ok?"

"You can't simply take a boy spontaneously from his environment in an impulsive act of teenage angst," spoke the TEN year old. Who teaches this kid?

"You just have to live a little sometimes, you know?"

"No, I just want to stay home, maybe do some math programs online. I have a test next Thursday."

"It's Friday!" I grunted with frustration. "Get in the car!" I demanded, grappling him and buckling him in the car.

"We won't get there before they even close!"

"We'll make it a weekend trip!" I smiled. "Just relax, ok? I'll even go pick up Wend. I'm sure she'll want to go." Wendy was doing bad from what little Sarah told me, and as much as I knew these two are the LEAST fun kids in the world, I was finally doing something for someone else. I wanted to help ease the stress from the shooting.

"Olive!" groaned my brother. "I want to go home!" I smiled at my baby brother, and then quieted him with three sticks of gum.

"Next stop: Wendy Pride."

Olive's POV

Maybe if I don't open my eyes I won't ever have to go back to real life. Perhaps the more I dream the less reality will affect me. Wouldn't it be perfect if the whole day had been a dream? The essence of Chanel Pour crept into my mind. I started to feel a bit more conscious, and it was followed by a steady breath against my ear. The plush sheets crushed beneath my skin warmed my body and felt like a cloud trying to merge and become one with me. My lashes brushed against the velvet pillows and I began to remember my surroundings: peace. Stress relief, an escape, an act of beauty, of love, of a pinch of rebellion, in other words: sex. Beckett's hands scouted around my body in search of a ticklish spot.

"Sleep well?" his sweet voice inquired. "I missed you while you were in lala land." I wrapped my hands around his with an intimate embrace. His light stubble tickled my neck while he spread kisses around my neck.

"What time is it?" my groggy voice asked. We both looked back at the alarm clock: two thirty AM. I'm going to die. "I'm so dead!" I squealed, springing from the bed. Gathering my clothes I collected a cluster of wrinkled fabric. I didn't weed through them to separate mine from Beckett's, but I was too petrified to pay any attention. I stared at the clock, hoping my mind could will the numbers to backtrack. It was almost as if the clock was taunting me: 2:30 AM. Those glaring bright red digits may as well have yelled in my face, "Your parents are waiting up to kill you." Beckett shadowed me to the bathroom, where I desperately attempted to clean up my appearance. The makeup stuck to my face like plaster on a brick and the hair on my head looked like a five star hotel for bird housing.

"Sarah," Beckett yawned. "You can't go out there. It's way too dangerous on my side of town." In my disoriented state, I could have slapped him for ordering me around.

"I get it!" I retaliated. "It just doesn't matter because I HAVE to be home."

"Say you were staying with Olive," he suggested. My trail of fumbling footwork towards the door came to a hault. With all the chaos that had been happening around us, I could potentially get away with this for the first time in my life. Beckett's muscular arms wrapped around me and tightened me in their welcoming embrace.

"It _is_ dark and scary out there," I thought aloud. His grinning smile pressed his teeth against my neck. A warm bed and a night of unending cuddles began to sound more and more like Heaven. "Too bad I'm too tired to move," I pouted playfully. Beckett's arms changed position and before I could speak again, I was staring down at his black locks. He carried me back to his room and relaxation teamed with comatose ensued. What a perfect night sleep it was.


	3. Chapter 3

Wendy's POV

"Thanks Brownstone," I heard my father weakly respond. "Olive called him two hours ago saying they were all the way at Knott's: without Sarah."

"Who's "they" if Sarah isn't with them?" asked my drained mother.

"She took Michael. Apparently she came over looking for Sarah and Wendy but no one was home. Now, Wendy was with me," he recalled. "Where was Sarah?"

"Probably wherever she is now sweetie," my mom suggested. "I'm sure she's fine: wherever she is."

"Fine? Bo, we live in a county that a sheriff can't even scare fear into. She could be massacred on the streets by a mob and not found for weeks!" His fears being spoken out loud, were the same that were in all of our heads: the exact reason none of us had breathed a word to Uncle Buzz or Aunt Jessie.

"Woody, could you please calm down? Wendy's going to hear you and you're going to put those ideas in HER head. Don't you think this family's been through enough today?"

"Yeah, I do Bo." My father's voice sounded impassioned and increasingly frantic. "That's why I'm going to have this kid's HEAD for plopping a steak on this family's full plate!" My dad's hope was so far in the soup that he could only wish Sarah had run away. The only hole in the idea was the fact Sarah wasn't that infantile. She'd never threatened to run away, or cried out for attention in her life, but that thought of her being a run-of-the-mill teenage rebel was the only thing keeping my father on two feet.

"Woody, when she comes home, and she will, give her a break. She's just a baby girl, and this family's not had the easiest week. We're all coping in different ways, and-"

"And her running out with not so much as a PHONE CALL isn't helping ANY of those stupid "methods." Do you know what the best way for ME to cope with this situation would be?" My father laughed in disbelief, because there was no other sound that he felt could fit. "To pour one Jack Daniels after another."

"Woody!" scolded my mother. "Olive called her parents and told them she was six hours away from home with nothing but her brother, car, and a credit card! Would you rather be hearing that news?" 

"Yeah, because you know what Bo? Sarah's NOT a baby. She's almost a grown adult woman and she should know enough to call!"

"She does know well enough to call Woody!"

"I REALIZE THAT!" My parents never have altercations, and the silence should be a relief, but it's a nightmare. This void of dialogue is just ticking seconds where the reality of my sister's fate is beginning to sink in. It's truth rushing through my brain, as well as theirs': she may not be coming home. "That's...why I'm worried." That's why we're all worried.

Sarah's POV

Even though Beckett had been wide awake in mid-morning when we'd woken up, he was in a dead trance now. I'd not been able to budge him, so I snuck off to the kitchen to make us breakfast. I always imagine that being a mom and a wife would be such an amazing job, and cooking a new meal for my family to try would be a fun way to start any day: until I began cooking often. Now it's just a chore and I realize I may be one of the women that shoots themselves in the head from the housewife's hamster maze routine. Now my dreams all lead to dancing on broadway, and since Beckett's a chef HIS fun recreational activities can be inventing new meals for the kids and I. Until then, though, I think he deserves something special for letting me stay the night and giving me so much solace.

"What's that smell?" His groggy voice asked, long before he could drag himself into my visibility. "I thought southern girls could only make grits and sausage," he teased.

"Ballerinas eating sausage would be the first sign of the apocalypse," I clarified. "Cheeseless omelettes, however, fit in the budget with fresh fruit." I motioned to my small breakfast plate on the table.

"Feeding a mouse?" he chuckled.

"Now I'm feeding a prince," I giggled showing him the plate I prepared for him. A bountiful amount of scrambled eggs with spinach, a pyramid of homemade pancakes, teamed with a blueberry syrup rolling down and covering the turkey bacon freshly off the skillet.

"I didn't realize you were such a griddle master," Beckett said with a smug grin. "Maybe I can put you in the culinary center's kitchen."

"Just eat," I laughed. "I have to get home and hope my family decided to stay with my Uncle Buzz last night." I walked back to the bedroom and began brushing my hair into a ponytail. I smoothed ruffles out of my shorts and stretched crevices out of my tank top. Looking back at my makeupless self, I couldn't help but smile. Beckett didn't look at me with a glance out of place without my makeup and I hadn't even noticed it had rubbed off over night. "Well," I sighed. "I guess I'll sit with you for a minute before I leave." My stomach had began fighting for it's rightful reward for waking up so early and working so hard with all the gorgeous aromas surrounding me. Beckett fed me a bite of his pancakes and I felt a pang of anxiety as the sickenly sweet calorie-filled bite slivered down my throat. The last carb of the day, I promised myself.

"Good?" he laughed. I could barely even manage to nod back as I uncomfortably fidgeted in my chair. Was I already bloating from it?

"My favorite part of breakfast is the delicious tastes mixing." My eyes followed his knife to his turkey bacon, which had soaked in some of the gluttonous syrup. "Sweet, salty, and the perfect consistency of crunch." The noise from the bite made my stomach growl out loud. "Want a bite?" he offered graciously. I had to get out of this waist expanding penitentiary.

"Nine already!?" I sky-rocked from the seat where I'd once found comfort. "I'm so dead!"

"Hey," Beckett began. He caught me by the arm and his sly smile curved on his cheeks. "I've got a better idea." 

Woody's POV

Staring down at my breakfast, my thoughts were so desolate, and nothing seemed to distract me. Bo thought pancakes was the perfect remedy for this family's hard times, but that's not how pancakes work. When I was a kid my mom made pancakes for any and every happy occasion. It was like the greated top to every good Christmas, Birthday, or special achievement I'd accomplished. I remember splitting a stack with Bo the morning of our wedding, when she was pregnant with Sarah. Heck, I remember sharing a stack with Sarah on her first Birthday: same with Wendy. Pancakes aren't permitted into this cell of self pity and sadness. These entrancing cakes of carbs would lure in even the fullest of people, but sitting here with a stomach more deprived than the desert I couldn't bare to touch them. It's funny how your life can be in a gale, yet objects and things never shift a centimeter. Pancakes still have the same flavor, but when they enter my mouth they're enclosed in a grisly new fortress where the rich, spongy, savor dissolves and is replaced with a vapid, stale and uninspired air. I wasn't hungry, despite my evident stomach pains.

"Breakfast is on the table pumpkin," Bo instructed. A sleepy and confused Wendy stumbled into the kitchen; hair tousled, pajamas crumpled. It was more than obvious she'd not slept well either: if at all.

"Good morning baby," I began, trying not to let my newspaper down. If she saw how tired I was, she might see a weakness I don't want her to know exists.

"Dad," she yawned. "Is it ok if we go see Uncle Buzz later today?" I watched from the corner of my eye as she poured a tall glass of cranberry juice: Wendy's morning fuel.

"Of course darlin'. In fact, I have to file a report on exactly what went down in Buzz's perspective, so I'd love for you to come." I saw her petite hands reach out and grab a stack of pancakes; thank goodness one of my girls isn't afraid of food.

"Thanks dad," she said with a voice dull as dishwater. "I think I want to file a missing persons report." I looked over my paper and raised an eyebrow: what was she talking about?

"Who's missing Wend?" I asked curious to what she really knew.

"Dad, I'm not stupid," she defended. "Sarah didn't come home last night, you still haven't filed a report and the longer we wait the less likely the survival: you taught me that since BIRTH!"

"Now hold on cowgirl, hold on." I took her hands and took down the wall of newspaper blockading our bond.

"Your sister," I began, looking straight in her eyes. "She's seventeen years old, smart, strong, and a darn good candidate for a warrior."

"Sarah?" Wendy stopped me. "She couldn't fight a bag of flour!"

"Well, now, maybe she isn't the most rough-and-tough girl around, but all that ballet and protein she's built her life around doesn't just work on stage. Besides, she's smart enough to know where in town she can go, and where she'd never want to step foot in."

"Then where would she be?" I felt like that question being asked out loud was redundant. I think the three of us- Wendy, Bo and I- have had that question play nonstop on our minds since we last saw Sarah.

"Clearing her mind," I suggested. "Who knows, maybe she stayed with Uncle Buzz last night!" Hope perked up in my heart when the first thought of optimism erupted spontaneously from my mouth. I certainly haven't even considered this yet, and Wendy's entire front began to fade. Her face altered; my heart's fluttering wings got rifled down.

"Aunt Jessie texted me this morning and told me to bring Sarah over today...Uncle Buzz was asking for her." Darn hope-crushing redheaded cowgirl. "Dad...I was really snippy with her last time we were together."

"Aww, cowgirl don't worry. You know she doesn't take it to heart. It's just the way you two treat each other. It's always been that way."

"I know, but...I just don't want our last talk to be our last."

"Wendy, please, don't talk like that," I pleaded. My eyes shut and I held my daughter tightly. Her body tensed, but I could telepathically feel her mind ease. It wasn't either for either of us, or Bo for that matter. Sarah knows that if one of us is missing: everyone is concerned. All I can think is that she better understand the consequences for her actions if she's doing this for attention.

Beckett's POV

"Slow down! AHHH! Beckett you're gonna kill us!" squealed Sarah from the passenger seat. Her spicy cinnamon mane blew across her face, blocking her vision of the wide open California highway.

"I'm going the speed limit!" I laughed, without a fib in sight. I pulled over to get some gas and my wind-blown lover glared daggers at me.

"Give me money," she demanded. "I need a sprite 0."

"Hey, we're at a 7-11 young lady! Be resourceful and go for the slurpee."

"I can't-"

"Get the slurpee!" I playfully yelled. Once mission: Make Sarah Smile, was completed, I handed her my dad's credit card and sent her on her marry way. Let's see...gas is $3.97 a gallon...yikes. Ok, ok I get my paycheck next week, and once my culinary tuition clears I'll have $237.62 left in my account. All I have to do is use my dad's credit card for the expensive stuff and try to use it as little as possible so he won't notice.

"I got us both slurpees," Sarah smiled with a sugary grin. The money anxiety dissipated at the sight of those piercing blue jewels. That gorgeous cover girl was mine- somehow that much is true- and anything to see that smile of hers is worth a rejected card...or an overdraft. I grabbed the slurpee with my free hand, still fueling the car with the other. A large swig through the straw was an invigorating refurbishment from all the heat and stress of the day. The icy cold sugar gushing down my throat, leaving an enticing flavor legacy behind for my brain to take in.

"This is perfect, thanks bunhead," I sighed in relief. "This really makes the grade."

"No problem cookie," she replied. Her sweet smile was mellow, but behind it I saw my girl: gushing and thrilled about our impending adventure. "Mmm!" she exclaimed. "Sugar free Sprite infused with sugar free mango lemonade: or as I refer to it as Heaven."

"I'll stick with my sugar-infested cherry mixed with mountain dew, thank you very much." Another sip intoxicated me with pleasure.

"Are we going home now?" she asked hopefully. "My family's obviously noticed I'm gone now, I'm just getting in more trouble now."

"Bunhead, listen, you've already been gone over night, what else could you get in trouble for? Think about it: you're already out, why turn in now?"

"While you're right, your teenage boyish-ness makes me not want to listen to you." I rolled my eyes and opened the door for her.

"The top's down, the slurpees have been purchased, and now we've got an entire eighty three degree day spilling over with possibility." Her blue eyes, resembling the beauty that I've only seen in blown glass, searched desperately around the car. She was battling ferociously for a decision, but when she turned to me with that smile: we both knew.

"What's the plan?" she asked. I grabbed her hand from across the gearshift.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I cocked an eyebrow with mystery shrouding the meaning behind my madness. "Just trust me."


End file.
